


Turning

by Selion



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selion/pseuds/Selion
Summary: Father Gascoigne goes to visit Djura in Old Yharnam. When things start slipping away from him, he just wants to see his old friend one last time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well. If you want old men being sad and then boning angstily, you came to the right place, hunter.

There's a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, caught with the eye that can still see worth a damn. What he manages to see is no more than a large shadow, there and then whispering away to vanish as he turns his attention to it.

Djura frowns down at the charred and smoking wreck of Old Yharnam, picking up no errant motion or odd sounds as he tries to follow what he thought he saw. It could easily have been nothing. Or maybe it was his death at long last. At this point he isn't completely sure which one he'd rather it be. His hands reflexively curl around his weapons as he gazes out, letting his eye go partially unfocused, more trying to pick up any hint of movement rather than specific things or features. The piston-powered blade in his right hand and the fearsome gatling gun resting under his left are his only allies against any would-be invaders of this forsaken section of the city. The only problem here is there is no target. Nothing has revealed itself amid the grey stone surfaces and sooty smoke oiling its way up into the sky. He resumes his watch, eye closing periodically and feeling the light wind tugging at his clothes.

He smells it before anything else, and amid the fright of being snuck up on, Djura has a moment to worry that he's losing his fine sense of hearing as well. It’s the damp, rusty iron scent of blood. Inescapable in Yharnam, insinuating itself into every aspect of living, but now it's sharp and very near.

A low, flimsy chuckle travels over to him, "You're slipping."

Djura turns, keeping it slow and smooth, but can't keep his fist from clenching on his driver or the gasp he sucks in over his teeth as he sees the person waiting by the ladder.

Gascoigne is still passable as fully human, but it's getting to be a close thing, he can see it. It's in his posture, the way his feet splay out on the stone just so, the odd length and looseness of his limbs, the way his overlarge shoulders fill out his dark coat. A stranger might see nothing at all amiss, but for one that knows him and his body so well, it's plain that he's on the way. Has been for a while. Djura's ashamed at the fear he feels, but thinks it might be justified this time. Not so ashamed at the loathing and anger, however.

Djura's voice is blessedly even as he speaks, not betraying the sour anxiety he feels. "What are you doing here?"  _ Besides skulking through the shadows like some great, shaggy bogeyman _ , he thinks to tack on but doesn't.

The big man shrugs airily, but the hard smile on his lips is anything but relaxed. "At times one misses the company of a friend."

"You and I aren't friends, Father."  _ Not anymore. _

The smile spreads to show off the big teeth. "You wound me, Djura."

Anger blooms at that; he doesn't want to play this coquettish little game. His own lips are rising as well, but not in a smile. Even now, after all this time has passed by, his fury and disgust for Gascoigne haven’t faded in any way. His words come out evenly, but there’s no mistaking the venom dripping from each one. "Perhaps a murderer deserves a few wounds."

Gascoigne chuckles, though the smile has left his face and the warmth is gone from his voice. "Hunting a few beasts does not a murderer make, my dear Djura. You think the creatures would extend the same kindness to you? You're so insufferably naive about them. Weak."

"It's not a weakness," he hisses. His body is tensing in preparation for something, and he knows Gascoigne can see it. He's mirroring it, after all. 

"They were  _ people _ once! They deserve our mercy." It’s a useless protest; he knows Gascoigne will never see it the same way. Can't or doesn’t want to. He shakes his head and finally says the thing that's been festering in his mind since it occurred. The thing that's going to make Gascoigne take those two big steps up to him and likely end him.

"And I meant Viola, you  _ monster _ ."

A ripple passes over Gascoigne's face. Djura barely has time to see the outraged grief in the set of his jaw and the way his skin pulls back before Gascoigne is in motion, gnarled hands coming up and long legs launching him forward.

Djura brings up the blade of his driver and manages a hard swipe against Gascoigne's ribs before he's on him, ducking in close and wrenching the weapon out of his grip, the cuff ripping against his arm. The smell of blood and sweat and insanity is all around him as Gascoigne throws the both of them down to the rough stone of the roof of his lookout. Even though he's never seen the father fight without his axe, he knows he's more than competent with his hands. The thought's proved correct when a clawed fist slams into his face, mashing his lips against his teeth and crashing against his nose.

Without his weapon he has less than no chance and he can do nothing but thrash in Gascoigne's grip as pain spreads over his face and into the little needle-points where he's being held down. He knows he's bleeding everywhere. The claws prick into him deeper as Gascoigne squeezes. He wants to groan at the pain but doesn’t. Won't let himself. 

Breeze whips up through Djura's dark hair and he realizes his shoulders are pressed down against the small guard wall and his head is hanging off into empty space. Although he's seen it many times, he can't resist a quick peek down to the ground far below, always fascinated by the deadly drop. Gascoigne drags him back to rest fully on the roof and impatiently knocks the ragged hat from Djura's head to better look at him. The set of teeth with the newly long canines is right in front of his face as Gascoigne speaks again. The thick lips twist around his words and it's making Djura remember things he doesn't really want to think about at a time like this.

"Killing Viola was an  _ accident _ , damn you." He at least had the guts to say what he'd done. "I lost control." The lips hang inches from his own, and the dips in the crossed dirty bandages covering Gascoigne's eyes seem to be staring through him. "You see what's happening to me, I know you can, beast-lover. The same thing that will happen to us all, in time. It's taking me bit by bit and sometimes it just snaps out." Gascoigne clicks his teeth together for emphasis.

And he's right, that single glance at the father had told him everything. But the bestial physical traits had come long, long after the first emotional ones. Djura's face heats as he remembers the very first time Gascoigne propositioned him. Pressing him against the jagged wall of a house and palming him through his pants even as Djura squirmed and breathlessly asked, "What about your wife?" The heavy grunts as the big man crushed against him, hot tongue slipping up his neck and whispering, "You're all I need."

Gascoigne has a hand on his chest, keeping him pressed down as he kneels over him. The other moves over Djura's jaw, stroking the short grey beard for a distracted moment and then resting under his chin, keeping it tipped up to look at him. Everything's coming crashing back to him and Djura's revulsion renews itself. Knows what this strange body and volatile temper are capable of. What they want. He closes his eye and hopes for mercy, knowing it isn't likely.

"What were you trying to goad me into?" Gascoigne mutters. The huge body is burning with heat, the voice getting hoarser even as it quiets to almost a whisper. "Killing you? I've never known you to be suicidal." 

His face is lowering, down to the blood that's spouted from Djura’s nose and leaking sluggishly from his lip. A slow, thoughtful graze of his tongue over Djura's cheek sets his scalp and back prickling. “Was it this?” A hand turns his jaw and Gascoigne's reddened lips cover his.

Djura jerks away, trying to at least appear to put up a fight of some kind. "Stop it," he grunts. It's a token effort. He hates it but knows he's slipping back into the old familiarity. The touches and the smells are too much.

The father smiles again, teeth huge and sharp and now smeary with blood. He lifts up and laughs and it sounds like howling. "You say stop but I know you, Djura." Teeth snap shut centimeters from the skin of Djura’s jaw and he can't stop the moan that comes out. Abject fear and arousal, did they really sound so different?

"Kiss me and it can be like before," Gascoigne says.

He reaches up to pull his own dark hat off, silvery hair now free to shift around in the wind racing over the tower. Then a finger slides under the bandages covering the top half of his face and pushes them back, uncovering the damaged skin and milky white eyes that can no longer truly see. Djura knows what they look like; his own right is similar. The knowledge still doesn't keep the sad gasp from spilling out. The eyes blink once. Slowly, deliberately. 

"Or don't... and I can finally let go, right here. It'll be a relief to me, but you'll scream. Likely cry. I might kill you."

_ Just like Viola _ , Djura thinks bitterly. This was what it came to. "This is why you're here now, isn't it? Your last chance before it takes control and you can't stop it?"

Gascoigne just looks at him, eyes unreadable. "Make your choice, hunter."

Djura chooses. Of course, it’s really no choice at all. His lips are tilting up and sinking against his own slick blood on Gascoigne's mouth. It feels like coming home for the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

As Djura breaks away, lips wet and tasting of copper, he doesn't want to look at Gascoigne. Afraid to see what expression is now in Gascoigne’s ruined eyes and ashamed at the way he’s stiffening against Gascoigne’s hip when he shifts to kneel over him. All in all, it’s quite a clever trick his body is performing: simultaneously desperate to be touched and also filled with the need to immediately get up and flee. 

The filigreed censer around the father’s neck swings through his view and he lets his gaze follow it for a moment instead; the way it catches glints of the orange sunset light. How long, he wonders, before those long silver chains and baubles full of church incense become uncomfortable and then impossible to wear? Soon, surely. Djura frowns at the pendant and thins his mouth as he waits for Gascoigne to snatch him up and take what he wants.

But Gascoigne just chuckles at the stubborn avoidance and reaches out to thumb over his lip. “Hah ha. Don’t tell me I disgust you now?  _ Djura,  _ Great Protector of Beasts, finally has one in his lap and he can’t bear to look at it. I can’t understand it.” Gascoigne’s knee slides further up Djura’s thigh to rest right against the junction of his legs. Djura freezes. It’s unpleasant and wrong and it sends a harsh jolt of pleasure shooting through his cock anyway. He’s trying so hard to stay aloof but, oh, it isn’t working.

“It’s different,” Djura says, not appreciating the unsteady shake in his voice.

“Is it? I don't see how.” Gascoigne tugs his eye wraps back down and it’s something of a relief, the frightening gaze being hidden away again. But there’s still the slightly elongated face, lips that spread a bit too wide when they open. The powerful, clawed hand now tracing over his own much smaller shoulder and arm. And the sharp teeth that used to be blunt and human. Bad enough as they are but very capable of getting worse. 

Damnit, it  _ is _ different. Gascoigne knows why, he’s just being intentionally difficult for the sake of it. Very typical of him.  _ At least  _ that _ hasn’t changed,  _ he thinks ruefully. Djura’s chest gives a little twinge and he sighs softly.

_...I could just give in. _

_ Try to ignore all the little anomalies and just fall right back to the old roles. It could be easy. Eas _ ier _. _

Djura looks up, eyes meeting the criss-cross of gauze, flitting over the strong nose and severe lips to the pale beard and hair he used to cheerfully run his hands through. It’s still there, he realizes. That little spark of love he held for the father. Maybe Gascoigne had been right. Maybe it  _ was _ a weakness. Whatever happens is going to hurt the both of them but it’s going to get done anyway. 

His hands rise, sliding against rough cheeks and bring the father down to kiss him as gently and warmly as he can. Gascoigne breathes against him in surprise and yields to Djura when he presses in deeper. The smell of Gascoigne’s clothes and skin is all around him, Gascoigne’s leg drags harder against him, and the hand around his arm squeezes with a firm, reassuring pressure. The ache in his heart deepens a little at how familiar and  _ nice _ it is.

“There,” Djura says a little breathlessly, hands still holding Gascoigne’s face and his fingertips resting in his hair. “Are you happy?”

Gascoigne smiles a little. “No,” he says. It doesn’t really sound like he’s talking about only now. “But thank you.” The smile gradually fades from sad to flinty, and Djura releases his hold, aware the moment has passed. He sighs and gestures vaguely to the ladder down. 

“Do you want me to invite you in?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Djura smiles a little despite the tense atmosphere. There’s the sarcastic politeness. “After you, then.” 

Gascoigne stands and brushes the dust from his knees. Djura reaches out so Gascoigne’s huge paw can engulf his hand and then they’re both descending to enter his own small quarters within the tower.

As soon as the door closes, he’s crushed against it, hands up to try to push back and gain some space but Gascoigne is far too heavy. Too heavy with one hand running up under Djura’s jacket and teeth on the back of his neck. He wants to be angry at the way Gascoigne handles him so easily, but the anger won’t come. Just the need pounding in his head and that bothersome sentimental yearning. Then the hand is falling to unlace his pants and it’s on and around him, urgent and rough. Djura moans and curls his fists against the unyielding door.

“Just like old times, hey, hunter?” Gascoigne’s tongue twists obscenely over the bump of bone at the base of Djura’s neck and he shudders at both sensations. He doesn’t much want to answer, rather close his eyes and concentrate on each sensation as it comes to him, but he knows one is expected.

“Things…damnit,” he groans as a thumb flickers over the slick head of his cock and rubs lazy circles there. “Things will never be… the way they were.” But even as he says the words he knows it's a lie. Even if the situation isn’t exact, the rest is a damned close replication. This position they're in was a favorite, the sounds of both their panted breathing a familiar harmony, and the nerves of each little precise spot Gascoigne knows how and how hard to touch are singing with pleasure.

Gascoigne just sighs into Djura’s shoulder as the smaller man thrusts into the tight loop of fist around him. “Djura, you've gotten more melancholy over the years, I have to say.”

“This city wears on you.” 

That was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say to the wrong person. Gascoigne tightens behind him and the hand that isn’t still roughly jerking him slinks around his neck and clamps down. It’s meant to be a show of anger or a threat, he’s sure, but all it does is excite him and he hums quietly.

"I  _ know _ it does,” he growls into Djura’s ear. “It’s been breaking me apart for months. And you knew. You could tell when it started on me, you filth.” The hand tilts his head to the side and Gascoigne bites down on his shoulder. He can feel the pressure threatening to break his skin, even through his thick jacket and cries out softly, not entirely from the pain. “Maybe I needed your help most of all, Djura, did you ever think of that?” The huge body is burning with heat, he can feel it through both of their layers of clothing and in the hand holding his face captive. “Did you?”

He… had thought of it. But had also thought it presumptuous to believe he could have affected the change in any positive way. Rude to place himself alongside Viola or his daughters or fierce, loyal Henryk. His cowardice had played no small part in it either. The changes frightened him, and he hadn’t wanted to watch. He regrets it sorely and nods his head, admitting it.

The hand squeezes him tighter and he edges closer, skin nearly as hot as Gascoigne’s and he curses softly against the door, “Oh, you fucking bastard.”

“Did you run here to hide as fast as you could when you noticed the change? To lord over these wretches instead of helping your friend?”

The pressure is unbearable and it’s only a few more ragged breaths before he’s coming and moans “I’m sorry!”, everything white-hot and shaking.

Gascoigne strokes him through it, wrenching every last little shake and twitch out of him and crooning against his neck. “I know you are. Sweet little Djura. Let’s see how sorry.”

And he’s lifted up and flung face-down onto his thin mattress. True to tradition, it’s fast and ugly. Djura, still in a post-orgasmic daze, feels his pants being yanked down and his coat being rucked up and then impatiently torn off. There’s no prep either, also standard. Just a quick swipe of tongue against palm, palm to cock, and then he’s shoving into Djura’s much smaller body. The difference this time is there’s no accompanying blood vial to heal the agonizing stinging throb in his ass. He tears in a breath and tries to wriggle away but that only makes it hurt more. 

Gascoigne taps a cool glass vial against Djura’s bare thigh. Doesn’t inject it, just lets him know it’s there. He rocks against him and the pain doubles, blearing his eyes with tears and making his breaths sound like sobs.

“Fuck,” he says, voice robbed of any volume. Don’t cry. “Fuck!” Gascoigne settles all the way in, the weight of him pressing over his back. Was he always this heavy? “I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry, damn you!” Gascoigne makes to draw out and his breath is hot and raspy. Djura knows he’s going to slam back in. “Cillian, please!” he begs, one tear finally spilling over. “Don’t, please.” It’s just a whisper.

A sharp pinch in the upper part of his thigh and relief blossoms outward, making Gascoigne’s over-sized intrusion bearable and making the faint throb in his cracked nose and split lip finally fade away. 

Gascoigne’s huge hand crushes his face against the bed as he rides him. “Good,” he says. His voice hasn’t lost that rasp, and Djura suddenly doesn’t really want to look at him. “I don’t blame you for it. I just wish you’d been around.” 

He wishes he had been too. However afraid he had been, it would have been many times worse for the man it was happening to. 

The other hand trails down Djura’s back and closes around his hip, the nails sharp sharp. Then there’s a hoarse, growling breath through a clenched jaw that gets louder as it goes on. Gascoigne’s hands are both clenching tight; tight enough for Djura to know he’s going to have dark, shadowy hand-prints adorning his side and back later and to feel his bones start to squeeze together.

It hurts and he’s back to feeling that whistly, distant fear, but his traitorous body is lapping up each offense and making him stiffen again. The breathing has fallen into actual growls by now, and Djura mutters, “Gods, control yourself.”

Gascoigne laughs and Djura’s fear tightens down. He was right, it’s sounding less and less human. He’d expected it, but it still managed to be a nasty shock. 

“Hah haaahhh, how do you think I’ve kept it together for so long?” 

_ Except for when you don’t _ , Djura thinks pointedly. 

“I should have gone over weeks ago, it’s long past time for me,” Gascoigne says as he grunts against him. But the hands relax a fraction and the howling breaths quiet as his pace stutters. Gascoigne drives in as deep as he possibly can, rocking Djura with each movement. A few more shaky thrusts and he can feel the hot liquid spilling into him and being forced out as Gascoigne groans and shoves hard one final time.

Mild disgust is what Djura feels, paired with satisfaction and some feeble sort of relief. Not really regret though. Gascoigne wrenches free and lets him collapse onto his side, neither giving the mess a second thought. 

Then his curiosity wins out and he rolls onto his back to sit up and look at the hulking man standing by his bed readjusting his clothes. It’s not as bad as he thought, hair looking a little wild and mouth stretched a bit, nails a tetch longer, and… oh. His legs have a strange curve to them, as if the bones have been slowly melting and rearranging. He can’t see so well for the loose pants covering them, but it’s definitely something different. Regret  _ does _ surge up then. If this was caused by what they did… hell.

Gascoigne notices where his eye’s gone and makes a face, impatience and amusement. “It was bound to happen,” he says with a shrug and a long lick of his tongue over his teeth. “I told you it’s past time.” Then he’s walking closer on those bizarrely-articulated legs and sinking to his knees in front of Djura with a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t stay like this, if you’re worried. You look concerned. It goes and comes back.”

Djura touches his face, tracing the edges of Gascoigne’s lips and jerks a little when his tongue pokes out to swipe across the pad of his finger. “Does it hurt when it happens?”

The father smiles, far too many teeth showing. “Yes, very much.”

Djura realizes he’s still in a bit of a state of dishabille and just how close Gascoigne’s face is to him. His hands part Djura’s thighs and he sucks him into one last release for the night, sweet and soft.

Everything’s cleaned up and clothes are back on, those that haven’t been ripped to shreds at any rate. Djura looks around the room with a terse glance; it seems back to normal. The smell of them would be gone in an hour or so, but he still had to sleep here. He stared down at the bed. The memory would last a lot longer than the smell. Tch.

Gascoigne turns back to him before he leaves, his face sad again. Neither of them are big conversationalists, and goodbyes have always been curt and unembellished. He puts a hand out to Djura’s face and eases it under the wide swath of fabric covering his bad eye. It’s pushed back and Gascoigne leans down to press a kiss there on the outside corner; Djura smiles faintly and presses his hand against where Gascoigne is holding his face.

“There’s another hunt on soon, Djura, I can feel it. No need to tell you, of all people, what that means. So I’ll just say ‘Fare thee well’ and we’ll hope for the best.”

Djura nods and lets his hand slip away as Gascoigne tugs his gauze back into place. “Fare thee also well, Father. And if there’s no best to be had, perhaps we’ll meet again when the hunt is over.” Maybe they haven’t forgiven each other, but at this point it doesn’t really matter that much.

Then Gascoigne is gone. And he’s right, as he usually is. Infuriating man. They don’t meet again in this turn of life. The next flicker of movement Djura catches with the eye that can still see worth a damn is no more than a large shadow. Down by the great double doors leading back up to the Cathedral Ward; there and then whispering away to vanish as he turns his attention to it.

And this time it  _ is _ his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cillian is an Anglicized Irish name that means 'little church' or 'of the church'. Seemed fitting.  
> The sad, cyclic ending also seemed fitting. Stop being so depressing, BB.


End file.
